by Julie Dill
I go to the office and look through the glass windows as I open the door.
It’s relatively quiet, and I walk to the front desk. Mrs. Messerli, the attendance secretary greets me with a smile.
“Hi. Whatcha need?”
“I’m Chelsea.” I look around for uniforms and badges.
She looks around at all her sticky notes scattered across her desk calendar.
“Chelsea. Chelsea. Let me see . . . oh, yes. Your first-hour teacher recommended we give you a special parking pass due to your injury. She said you were tardy today.”
I look at her. For a second, I can’t find words. “Oh, yes.” Tears stream down my face. “That would be great.”
Chapter 31
When I get home Dad is horizontal on the couch. Same whiskers, same messy hair, same everything.
I take charge of the situation. I don’t know what else to do.
“Dad, I got the gun.”
This gets his attention, and I steal him from his beloved Ellen show.
“What?” He even hits the mute button.
“Dad, I didn’t know how to tell you, but I had pawned the gun to pay a bill. It’s just something I had to do, and I should have just told you. I’m sorry, Dad.”
Deep down, I want this information to hurt him. I want to light a fire. Let’s get something going! Will this register with him? My daughter had to pawn a gun to pay a bill?! Gee, I better look for a job so this doesn’t happen again!
He looks back at Ellen, still muted.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Chels. Those places are dangerous.” He’s calm. Too calm.
I can’t help myself.
“Yeah, well you didn’t leave me with much of a choice.” I walk out the door, get the gun, then come back in and place it on the coffee table in front of him. He gives Ellen her voice by clicking the remote—the studio audience bursts into laughter—and that’s that.
I go to my room and close the door.
I feel the need to call Cassidy, but she’s so far removed from where I’m at this particular moment, she wouldn’t understand. I want to call Nate. But what would I say? I get under my covers and try to force a nap, but I can’t sleep.
At this point there’s an awkward tension between Dad and me, someplace we’ve never been before. He needs a job. He knows I know he needs a job. He knows I know you don’t find jobs lying on the stupid couch all day. I put on my baseball cap, grab my coin purse, and head out the door.
Dad perks up.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.” I leave without giving him the chance to respond.
I get in my car without any idea as to where I’m headed. I just drive. Mostly in neighborhoods, where families are doing family things all together as big happy families. A mom sits with her daughter drawing on their driveway with sidewalk chalk . . . A dad throws a bat bag into the back of his car as his son climbs in the passenger seat. An old guy waters his flower bed by hand. I get lost in my thoughts and just keep driving.
It’s almost by default that I end up where I do. My car just goes there.
I need to see Nate. But even more, I need to play poker.
I bite the inside of my mouth, but I don’t cry when I pull into the parking lot. Inevitably the rent will be due in a week. I don’t want to sell my car.
I park under a light, then sprint up toward the building. The smell of smoke is extra strong. I smell it at least ten steps before I even enter the front doors. A calm comes over me when I walk in, and I know this is my night. Some days I feel it, some days I don’t. Tonight, I feel it.
I go straight to the poker room.
When I approach the check-in counter the thought crosses my mind that I already don’t want it to end. A perfect life would be to just hang around here and play poker. Forever.
Although I only have $100 to get started, I go ahead and take a seat at the high-stakes table. I recognize only one player, and I’m shocked to see Ms. Stella on this table. She must have hit it big on a slot machine or something to be running with the big dogs.
“Well there she is.” She winks and gives me a thumbs up.
“Here I am.” I laugh politely and unfold my $100 bill to lay out on the table. “Five dollar chips, please.” I’m already being dealt in, and I repress the thought that I’m basically playing to keep my car.
My first hand sucks. My second hand sucks, but I haven’t lost a dime because it’s not my turn to be the blind. Yet.
I sit through five bad hands, and I hope this isn’t a sign of what’s to come. However, I do like the mojo at this high-stakes table better than the other night. The people are chatty and friendly. They smile in the warmest way as they merge others’ chips with their own.
I finally get some down-cards I can work with, and I’m relieved to finally see the royal couple. King and queen . . . like meeting up with old friends after spending time away. I bet to stay in the hand, and then it gets ugly.
A large man with a reddish ponytail goes all in before we even get the flop.
This would be my entire stack.
I can’t do it. Not before the flop. I know he’s bullying me, but I picture my car in my head then throw my cards back to the middle.
This pisses me off. All in before the flop?! What a bully.
I glance around and come to the realization that Nate must not be working tonight which is okay by me, actually better for me, because I can’t be distracted when I’ve got so much at stake.
I sit through about two hours of the back-and-
forth . . . Up a little, down a little . . . then I take down a pretty decent pot, about $400, give or take a few.
This puts me in a much better position. I’m not at their mercy anymore.
$400 would put a serious dent in our rent, but it’s just not enough to solve all the problems.
I keep going . . .
Until I’m up $1200 dollars.
Twelve hundred! This would temporarily solve our problems . . . I should really get up. I could tell Dad that I’ve been working and getting sales commission somewhere . . .
But I keep going.
My imagination runs wild with the possibility of doubling my $1200. And I convince myself it’s not even unrealistic to turn my stack into $5000 if I’m patient enough.
I check my phone for the time. 8:24 p.m. Casinos, strategically, do not have clocks on the walls, nor do they have windows. It could be raining poker chips outside and no one in this joint would ever even know. We’re in our own, secluded world, not even knowing if it’s daytime or night. We’re dealt the cards. I pull the corners back and take a peek at mine.
“Hey, come get a bite with me.” A hand touches my back.
I turn around to see Nate.
Then look back at my cards.
He waits.
I’ve got this happy/nervous/I’m-so-glad-to-be-near-
him-again feeling. Nate stands behind me, wordless, while I finish the hand. Poker etiquette 101.
After the hand, Ms. Stella lets everyone know that it’s getting close to her bedtime . . . she’s in for one more hand . . . make it a good one. However, it’s time for a dealer change, and Granny can’t bear to sit here through the shuffling, counting, and tucking of the money. “Well, I’m out of here. You kids have a good night,” she says, then stands.
Nate stays put. Hand on my back.
I stand with Ms. Stella and turn to Nate, “I’d love to,” I smile and cock my head, “be right back.”
I walk Ms. Stella safely to her car the whole time thinking about how relieved I am that the Tulsa fiasco didn’t ruin things for me and Nate. After all, he’s here, wanting to talk. That’s a good thing. Right?
I go back in and meet Nate in a booth that’s tucked in a corner of the sports bar. He looks super hot . . . He tells me I look bea
utiful and grabs my hand across the table. I’m relieved that he’s bought the lie about Tulsa. Things seem okay between us, but I have a twinge of guilt when he asks how my dad’s doing and if there’s anything I need. “He’s feeling much better, thanks though.”
“So, what happened?” He looks me dead in the eyes, and I start twisting the end of a paper napkin.
“Just what I said. He had chest pains and went to the emergency room.”
He pauses. “Did they find a blockage? Does he have to have surgery?”
“No, he’s fine.”
“Really? They didn’t find anything?”
This conversation needs to end.
“Nope.” I get snippy.
He can tell I don’t want to talk about it so he changes the subject. We talk about other things for a few minutes then he goes back to work.
I go back to the poker table and sit down, then take one chip from my stack and use my pointer finger and thumb to spin it around in circles while the dealer does his thing.
At first I don’t pay much attention, but when I look up to see if the game’s about ready to start I realize the dealer looks familiar . . . I think he’s been my dealer here before. Hair that’d be curly if it wasn’t cut so short and eyelashes that extend longer than the average guy’s. A pretty boy, in a not-so-stylish way. Probably in his forties. He claps his hands once, and shows the cameras in the ceiling that they’re empty and says, “Good luck gentlemen.” When he realizes that I’m at the table he adds, “Good luck to you too, little lady.” He does a double take.
I look away.
Has he dealt me a losing hand before? There’s some type of connection here, but I can’t figure it out.
A friend of Nate’s? I wonder if Nate has pointed me out to him before. It’s completely obvious that he’s trying to figure it out too, because he deals the cards in all directions and never takes his eyes off me.
At this point, I’m completely uncomfortable, but what the hell am I supposed to do with over $1000 worth of chips sitting in front of me?
He’s not shy, and asks me point blank.
“You play here a lot?”
I look up like I don’t realize he’s talking to me.
“Oh, me? Yeah, I guess . . . Well, not really a whole lot. Just sometimes.” I don’t even make sense to myself.
He keeps dealing and chatting.
“Hmm. You just look familiar. I’ve probably just seen you around here before.”
“Yeah, probably.” I want this conversation to end. Although I’m sitting with a crappy hand, I look intensely at my cards and try to send him a signal to stop bugging me while I’m focusing on my game. I even go as far as to call my crappy hand so I don’t have to toss in my cards and continue this conversation.
I feel him looking at me.
I just stare at my cards.
It must’ve been crappy cards all-around, because the entire table ends up folding, and I wind up with a small pot to add to my growing stack.
I tell myself just three more hands then I must go. I hope for good cards; I really don’t want to sit here through three hands and not participate.
There’s still awkward static between the dealer and me, and I try to catch a glimpse of him when I know he’s not looking at me. He tosses us our cards, and I barely bend up the corners—one at a time—to take a look at mine. Ace. Ten.
I’ll take it.
The entire table calls, and there’s already a nice little pot in the works. I look at the dealer’s nametag, David, but it doesn’t ring a bell. He reveals the community cards, one at a time, and before the last one is even turned face-up, a guy in a hoodie pulled over his head goes all in.
Are you kidding me? I haven’t even had time to process the cards, and he’s already gone all-in? Intimidation tactic? Or total confidence in his hand?
I’m worried. But not too worried when I see I already have two pair. Aces and tens!
The dealer tilts his head and counts to count the guy’s chips, then says, “$900 to call.”
Are. You. Kidding. Me.
Nine hundred dollars to stay in this hand?! I squirm in my chair. This is the big one I’ve been waiting for.
Two others, before me, call the hand and there’s $2700 just waiting for the taking. My heart goes berserk, and I’m not the only one trembling. I stare down making sure I’m holding what I think I’m holding. My eyes dart back and forth from the cards in my hands to the community cards on the table. Ace in my hand. Ace on the board. Ten in my hand. Ten on the board. Yes, I confirm, I have it.
I count out $900 and push my chips to the middle. I do it quickly, like ripping off a bandage or plucking a hair.
I get the familiar poker high, and let the hand play out. Additional cards don’t help my hand; I end with a strong two-pair.
It’s a feeling of being whacked in the stomach with a baseball bat when the guy in the hoodie flips over his diamond flush. It comes from nowhere. I didn’t even realize there were three diamonds on the board!
My throat tightens. I get up and start quickly walking to the door.
I feel like I’m going to get sick so I start running to the bathroom. I bolt in, go straight to a toilet, and kneel down without even shutting the stall door.
A loudmouth, who I didn’t even get a good look at, brings attention to me as I start dry-heaving in the toilet. She laughs and says, “Ohhhh, honey. Been there done that! Just last weekend! What’d you drink?”
I don’t answer. I reach for toilet paper to clean my mouth.
I can tell she’s getting closer by the sound of her voice. “Vodka? Tequila?” It’s a southern drawl like no other. “It was Cape Cods that did it for me. I puked pink liquid for at least five hours straight and swore I’d never do it again.” She sets her bottle of beer on the top of the toilet paper holder as if she’s going to help do something.
I flush the toilet and lift myself up.
“I’m okay. Thanks. Really.”
She grabs her beer and takes a drink.
“Take care of yourself. It’s awful early in the night to be bowin’ down to the throne.”
I feel no need to explain to this woman that I haven’t been drinking. I go to the sink and wash my hands. I look in the mirror at my own reflection to see a girl in a baseball cap with watery eyes, and I quickly look back down and begin splashing water on my face.
I can’t find Nate to say goodbye, but it’s for the best. I don’t want him to see me like this anyway. I text him a goodnight message, and he does the same.
I lie in bed that night, unable to sleep, reliving the hand over, and over, and over again. How did I miss the three diamonds?
__________
The next day, I stay home from school. Again. Dad doesn’t even realize I’m still home until around eleven when I come out from my room for some milk. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” I say in a smart-ass tone.
“Why aren’t you at school?”
“I’m sick.” I pour my glass of milk and return back to my room.
He has no other questions and assumes his position on the couch. I surely have nothing to say.
It’s his fault.
All of it.
The stack of unpaid bills . . . the casino . . . the loss . . . everything. It’s all his fault.
I get back under the covers because I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t want to sell my car. I don’t want to be in high school. I don’t want to be Chandra to Nate . . . but I can’t be Chelsea to Nate. Ever.
I sleep all afternoon.
Chapter 32
I stay home for two more days and hardly leave my room. Nate’s called twice, but I don’t answer and I don’t return his calls.
When I finally pull myself from the confines of my bed, I do laundry because I’m down
to my last clean pair of anything. Dad keeps his distance, and that’s fine by me.
I tell myself I can work out of this. I’ll try again.
I leave the house with fifteen dollars in my purse.
And I go back.
When I go in, I feel different. I feel dirty.
There’s a waiting list for the low-stakes table. I add my name, seventh on the list, and walk around. I walk slowly because I can’t shake the feeling of dread.
I sit down at a slot machine, not to play, just to sit. I look down the row of bright machines all chanting their own enticing lures.
“Wheeeel of Fortune!!!” Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding! Lights flashing, the machines sit patiently, just waiting to be fed.
At the end of the row an elderly man sits down, pulls some crinkled cash from his back pocket, smoothes a bill, and feeds the machine.
He plays, intensely, leaning close to the machine to get the best view. He pushes the button. Over and over and over again, and nothing lights up . . . no bells ring.
He stops and leans back in his chair.
He pulls another bill from his crinkled wad, smoothes it over his leg, then feeds the machine again.
I can’t watch.
I get up and leave.
I’m almost to the exit door when Nate gently grabs my elbow and turns me toward him.
He’s working; I can tell by his suit jacket.
“Hey, where ya been lately? I’ve been trying to call,” he says.
I squint from the sunshine coming from the window and fake a quick smile. “Oh, sorry. I’ve been sick.”
“Blood sugar again?”
What is he talking about?
“No . . . I think it was a sinus infection or something like that. Just stuffy head and a little achy.” Then I remember about the whole blood sugar thing.
“Oh. Well, I’ve been missing you.”
I look at him for a longer-than-usual moment. “Look, I don’t want to get you sick. I’ll just call you when I start feeling better, okay?”
“Are you sure you’re okay? Is something going on?”
I stand, speechless. And for one second I want to tell him everything. Start to finish. I want to say it all. I want to tell him that my mom left when I was only six. I want to tell him that I haven’t been taken care of since. That I go to high school where everyone has stuff and cars and parents who hold down good-paying jobs with insurance. I want to tell him that my name is not Chandra, and I live in a house the size of a walk-in closet. That I pawned a gun to play poker. I want to tell him that soon I’ll be evicted. I want to let him know that when I play poker I’m a million miles away and I love the way that makes me feel.